Constance continued to study the picture, finally noticing other tiny sheep dotting the hillside in the background behind Jesus. Flowers scattered around His feet. She had never seen anything as beautiful as the window, and she basked in the warmth it brought to her heart. A faint hope rose that God would take care of her and help her keep the promise to her father.
Soon after she sat down, the service began. When the pastor finished the opening prayer, a woman went to the pump organ, and a profusion of musical notes filled the room. The hymns they sang were familiar to Constance, so she joined in with all her heart.
When she put her wrap on the seat beside her, it made an effective barrier between her and those who shared the same pew. Not having someone sitting with her didn’t detract from her enjoyment of the service. By the time the pastor started his message, she was glad she had come, even though she didn’t know anyone.
“‘The secret things belong unto the LORD our God. …’” The pastor read a verse from Deuteronomy that Constance had never noticed before. “‘But those things which are revealed belong unto us and to our children for ever, that we may do all the words of this law.’”
Of course, Constance loved the New Testament, and she read it much more often than she did the Old Testament. But these words spoke straight to her heart. Too bad Mother’s Bible had fallen apart more than a year before. If she still had it, she would look up the words and read them for herself. While the preacher continued his message, Constance started to pray silently that God would help her find Mr. Mitchell. She could conclude her business with him and return to her beloved mountains before very long.
Since Hans had started having a hard time going to sleep, sometimes he overslept. Because of this, he slipped into the church after the singing started and took a seat on the back pew. He didn’t usually sit that far back. It made him feel as if he were a spectator instead of a participant in the service. He liked to be close to the front so nothing would distract him from worship. Jackson was a biblical scholar, and his messages always gave Hans a lot to think about. Often, he would return home and reread the passage of Scripture and mull over Jackson’s words for days, noting how they applied to his own life.
When he was settled in his seat, Hans glanced toward the front. His attention snagged on a woman sitting about halfway down on the opposite side of the aisle. The tilt of her head and set of her shoulders caused his heartbeat to accelerate. He glanced down and took a deep breath before raising his head again. There were other single women in the congregation, but none made him feel this way.
Besides, maybe Constance Miller wasn’t single. Just because no one came with her didn’t mean that she didn’t have a husband back home. At that thought, something unsettling dropped into his chest.
She probably was a believer. She sang every word of the hymns without looking at a hymnbook. The church only had a few scattered around the pews anyway.
Hans noticed that no one sat beside her. For just an instant, the idea of taking that empty space entered his mind, but he dismissed it, turning his attention to the words of the song. How could he be so interested in a woman he might not be able to trust? Besides, it would start gossip about both of them.
After the final prayer, Constance picked up her cape and fastened it around her shoulders before gathering her handbag and gloves.
“Hello.” The cheery feminine voice came from behind her.
Constance turned to see a woman not much older than herself. A smile wreathed the petite woman’s face.
“I’m Mary Reeves.” She held out her hand. “I don’t believe I’ve met you.”
While she took the proffered hand, Constance replied, “I just came to town last Monday. My name is Constance Miller.”
The other woman gestured toward the back door where the pastor was shaking hands with people as they left the building. “That’s my husband, Jackson. We’d like to have you join us for lunch. I have a roast in the oven, and we usually invite anyone who is new to share a meal with us.”
Constance liked the woman’s sincere smile. Maybe having dinner with them would be a good thing. She might find out something about the Mitchell family that way.
“Thank you.”
As they made their way toward the door, Mrs. Reeves introduced Constance to several other women. They each welcomed her to both the church and the town. Maybe Constance would be able to make a few friends while she continued her quest.
It wasn’t unusual for Jackson and Mary to invite Hans to eat with them, so he gladly accepted Jackson’s invitation. As a single man, he always welcomed a home-cooked meal.
“I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Hans squinted against the bright sunlight. “I finished fixing that kettle for Mary. I’ll go fetch it. I know how much she uses it.”
While he strode toward his shop, his thoughts returned to the Miller woman. There was some mystery about her, some secret she kept hidden. Why did she invade his thoughts so much? He didn’t need to get involved with anyone who wasn’t completely honest, did he?
He stepped up on the porch to the parsonage, and Jackson opened the door before he could put the kettle down and knock. “I watched for you. I know that thing is pretty heavy.”
When Hans walked through the doorway, he almost dropped what he was carrying. The woman who had filled his thoughts and dreams so much this week sat in a kitchen chair talking with Mary.
“Come on in, Hans,” Mary called from the kitchen. “I’ve invited Miss Miller to share our meal.”
Miss? Mary called her Miss. Hans could only hope she was right. That is, if he really were interested in the woman.
When Mary started to introduce Constance to the blacksmith, Constance stopped her. “We’ve met. Mr. Van de Kieft has protected me from harm more than once.”
She should have known that the other woman wouldn’t let the subject drop. After they were seated, Mary wanted to know all about it. While they enjoyed the wonderful food, Constance and Hans had to recount both instances. It was interesting to hear the experiences from his perspective. By the time they were through with the stories, all four of them were laughing, and the atmosphere felt much more relaxed.
Constance offered to help Mary wash the dishes, but the other woman insisted that they leave them soaking in the dishpan. “I can wash dishes anytime. I want the chance for us to sit down and really get to know one another.”
Mary brought cups of strong coffee into the parlor on a tray that also contained ginger cookies.
“Thanks, Mary.” Hans took a couple of the large sweets in one hand. “These are my favorites.”
“That’s why I made them yesterday.”
Constance wondered why the large man had such a strange expression on his face, as if he was surprised by what the pastor’s wife said.
“But Jackson just invited me after the service.” Hans sank his teeth into the cookie and sighed around it.
“Oh, I know, but we talked about it yesterday.” Mary smiled at her husband, and Constance felt a sudden longing for someone to love like that. “But we didn’t know that Miss Miller would be attending church this morning. Wasn’t that a pleasant surprise?”
For some reason, Constance got the feeling that they weren’t surprised at all. Now why did she feel that way?
Mary sat demurely on the sofa beside her husband. “So where exactly did you come from?”
Constance was just taking a sip of the hot beverage, and the abruptness of the question almost made her choke. Mary certainly got right to the point. “I’ve lived in the Ozark Mountains of northern Arkansas all my life.”
Hans set his cup down on the coffee table and leaned back in his chair. “So what made you leave Arkansas?” His eyes narrowed, and she got the feeling that her answer was very important to him.
She glanced around the room, then out the front window. “This is a pretty area.”
Constance turned back and took a nibble of her cookie. Looking at him out of the corner of her eye, she could t
ell that her answer didn’t satisfy him. Constance was beginning to like this man, but she wasn’t sure she wanted him asking too many personal questions.
Mary reached over and patted Constance’s hand. “Wasn’t it rather dangerous to travel alone? Didn’t you have anyone to come with you?”
Tears sprang into Constance’s eyes, and she tried to blink them back. “My mother has been gone for several years, and I…lost my father recently.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Mary’s expression contained distress. “I didn’t mean to bring up sad memories.”
Constance swallowed a couple of times, trying to dislodge the lump in her throat. “It’s part of life that you have to get used to.”
Finally, Jackson joined the conversation. “That doesn’t make it any less sad for the person who experiences the loss. Can I pray for you?”
When Constance nodded, they all bowed their heads. Jackson’s prayer contained words of comfort that helped her move beyond the pain of the moment. When he finished, they sat for a few silent minutes. She had about decided that it was time for her to leave, but Hans cleared his throat.
“So why did you come to Browning City?”
What could she say without giving too much information? Constance groped in her mind for some way to answer truthfully. She stood and walked over to peer out between the curtains. Trying to find out something about the Mitchells by listening unobtrusively hadn’t worked. Maybe she could trust her secret to these people…or at least part of it.
“Hans.” Mary’s voice sounded gentle. “Maybe Constance doesn’t want to tell us. We shouldn’t put her on the spot like that.”
Constance turned toward the group. “That’s okay. My father asked me to come find his friend from the war.” She clasped her hands tightly in front of her waist. “Do any of you know Jim Mitchell?”
Jackson looked from his wife to Hans then back. “I believe a family by that name owned some land near the Mississippi River, but I don’t think anyone has lived on the farm for more than a year.”
Constance returned to her chair and perched on the front of it, clasping her hands in her lap. “Is it very far from here?”
“We’re several miles from the Mississippi, and if I remember right, the farm is northeast from here.” Jackson shuffled his feet against the rug. “I’m sorry we couldn’t be any more help than that.”
She stood and looked toward the hall tree where her cape hung. “You’ve helped me a lot. I needed friends, and you welcomed me into your home and fed me a delicious meal. But it’s time I got back to the hotel.”
Mary followed her into the foyer. “I hope we can become good friends.”
“Thank you. I would like that.”
Constance donned her cape and gloves and slipped out the door. She knew she was running away, but she had always been totally honest. Trying to keep a secret was becoming a burden to her heart.
Hans didn’t stay long after Miss Miller left. He couldn’t even remember what Jackson, Mary, and he had discussed in those last moments. His mind was on the story that Constance had told them and on the part of the story she left out. Why is she so intent on finding this man? Is she interested in him in a romantic way?
That thought felt like a spike sinking through his chest. He didn’t care what she did. But she should be too young for her father’s friend, shouldn’t she?
four
After leaving the parsonage, all Constance could think about was the fact that a Mitchell family owned a farm close to the Mississippi River, not too far from Browning City. That was probably Jim Mitchell’s family. How could she find out? The question was her first thought on awakening Monday morning.
She paced from one side of her hotel room to the other trying to think what her father would do if he wanted to find them. Surely, he would go out there to the farm to see if anyone had returned. He might even try to get into the house and see if they left any indication where they might be. Constance could do that, couldn’t she? Or maybe talk to a neighbor who might know where they went and when they would come back.
How would she find the farm? She didn’t know anything about Iowa, except the portion she had seen from the windows of the stagecoach. If she had it figured out right, the Mississippi was east of Browning City. Did one of the roads lead east out of town? She could just follow that. Maybe it would be a good idea to talk to the sheriff and see if he knew where the farm was. She didn’t want to ask Pastor Jackson and Mary about it again. It wouldn’t do to arouse too much attention from anyone. They might ask more questions than she wanted to answer.
Constance went to the open window and leaned out to check the temperature. The spring breeze didn’t feel cold, so she didn’t put on her cape, just her bonnet, before picking up her reticule and going downstairs.
Thankfully, the hotel wasn’t on a street where she could see the smithy. While she made her plans, the blacksmith’s face often intruded on her thoughts. He didn’t really know much about her. Although he had been kind to her, she knew he couldn’t possibly be interested in her except as a casual friend. It wouldn’t do any good to pay much attention to him. After she found Jim Mitchell, she would be on her way back to her beloved Ozarks.
The walk to the sheriff’s office didn’t help clear her jumbled thoughts. The door to the office stood open, so she stepped inside. The sheriff had his back to the door, tacking up a wanted poster. Constance had never been in such an office before. The room had a utilitarian feel to it, bare of decorations, unless you wanted to count the posters. They made her shiver in disgust. She didn’t want to see outlaws, even if they were mostly drawings. She cleared her throat.
The sheriff whirled around. “Well, what can I do for you, little lady?”
Constance didn’t like being called little lady. “My name is Constance Miller, and I’ve come for some information.”
The sheriff held out his hand. “I’m Andrew Morton, and I’ll help you if I can.”
She barely touched his hand with her fingers when they shook hands. “I’m trying to find someone.”
The sheriff took off his hat and laid it on his desk. “Have a seat.” He gestured toward the chair in front of the desk while he leaned against the front corner of the large, plain wooden piece of furniture. “Who are you looking for?”
Constance cleared her throat again, this time because it felt so dry. “One of my father’s army buddies. Jim Mitchell.”
He scratched his stubbled cheek and stared into space for a moment. “I think he’s the son of a family that owns a farm near the Mississippi.”
“That’s what I heard.”
“I haven’t seen hide nor hair of any of the Mitchells for almost a year.” He moved behind the desk and dropped into his squeaky chair. “Why do you want to find Jim?” He leaned his arms on the desk and stared intently at her.
Constance squirmed, trying to find a more comfortable position on the hard wooden seat that was so tall her toes barely touched the floor. “My father wanted me to find him. Before he died, he made me promise to do that.”
“I’m real sorry to hear about your father. When did you lose him?”
Tears sprang to Constance’s eyes, and she removed a hanky from her reticule and blotted them away. “Several weeks ago.”
The expression on the sheriff’s face turned sympathetic. That brought more tears to Constance. She was sure that by now her nose and eyes must be red-rimmed. She blotted them again with the now soggy bit of cloth.
“Would you like me to go look for him?” He began tapping a pencil on the wooden desk in a brisk cadence. “I probably could go next week.”
Constance stood. “No, thank you. If you could just tell me how to get to the farm, I’ll go myself.”
He rolled up out of his chair and towered over her. “I can give you directions, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to go out there alone. I know you came on the coach by yourself—”
“How do you know that?” She knew it wasn’t polite to interrupt,
but she wanted to know where she stood with this lawman.
He chuckled. “I was standing with Hans when the coach drove up.”
“I suppose you saw me fall.” Constance knew how to make her tone icy. Hopefully, the man would take the hint.
His grin widened. “Actually, you didn’t exactly fall. After you stumbled, Hans—”
As if their words called him, the blacksmith stepped through the doorway. “Andrew, I finished shoeing your horse, so I decided to bring him—” He stopped short and glanced from the sheriff to Constance.
The room felt extremely warm. She wished she had brought her fan. Hopefully, she didn’t look too flushed. She even thought about grabbing one of those wanted posters and fanning herself with it.
“Hans.” The sheriff skillfully took control of the conversation. “Miss Miller came to ask directions to the Mitchell farm. She wants to go there by herself. I was just starting to tell her it really isn’t safe for a single young woman to travel out in the country alone.”
Hans nodded. “I agree. Outlaws occasionally roam the back roads. She would be easy prey for them.”
Constance stood as tall as she could, stiffening her back. “Thank you for your concern, but I don’t want to wait until next week when the sheriff could check it out for me. I want to finish my business with Mr. Mitchell and return home as soon as possible.” She turned toward the lawman. “If you’ll be so kind as to give me the directions…maybe you could write them down, so I won’t get lost.”
A Daughter's Quest Page 3